


this is how it goes, chapter by chapter

by arbhorwitch



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Nightmares, References to Child Abuse, References to Drug Use, Star Trek: Into Darkness Spoilers, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:56:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbhorwitch/pseuds/arbhorwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a love story, not quite, but close enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is how it goes, chapter by chapter

**Author's Note:**

> there's actual fluff in this at some point!! i know i'm surprised too 
> 
> i have no idea where this came from but there's angst and actual kirk/spock and i think this is the sappiest thing i've ever written and that's sort of sad because it's not as sappy as it sounds 
> 
> lyrics at the beginning come from the gorgeous song "under the sheets" by ellie goulding
> 
> also it's unbeta'd for now but i'll get on that when it's not one in the morning on a day i have to work i promise!!

_we're under the sheets and you’re killing me_

_in our house made of paper, your words all over me_

-

“I was thirteen,” he says, picking at a loose thread on his shirt. He doesn’t look up because if he looks up, he’s going to lose his resolve, and the city is lit up like thousands of stars; it reminds him of space, of endless galaxies and spun nebulas guiding him through the unknown. “Thirteen,” he repeats, and if it has added effect or dramatic overtones, fuck it, he doesn’t care.

He can feel Spock’s gaze staring through him, past the flesh and muscle and bones, and he feels oddly exposed, splayed out on a table and waiting to be dissected but never feeling the pain, never _feeling_.

-

He’s thirteen when he flings himself off a cliff.

He’s not suicidal, like the doctors and psyches think, and he’s not looking to destroy himself via any means necessary—at least, not yet. That’s him in the future, at fifteen and eighteen and twenty-two with sex and bottles and liquor; at thirteen, he’s angry and bitter and sick of the bruises and blood, so he ignites the car and drives. It takes him down dirt roads and there’s such a heavy sense of _freedom_ flooding his veins that he screams with glee. There’s a man’s precious baby vibrating beneath him, and the furious voice coming at him through the speakers, the expansion of blue above him, a million sensations like knives in his ribs.

He’s going to get caught, he’s thirteen, he’s out for revenge and there’s nothing Frank or Sam or any-fucking-one can do, so he flings himself off a cliff and jumps at the last second because he doesn’t want to _die_ , not really.

It’s vindication, victory coursing through him, and he’s gone, baby, gone.

-

He learns at a very young age that no matter how smart you are, no matter how much you love someone with all your being and your heart, it will not _save_ you.

The trick is to shield yourself as much as possible, to take your organs and your bones and shove them all in a dusty corner so no one can find them. He can be above every student in his class at eight years old; he can have a reading level that surpasses those four grades above him, but it won’t buy Mommy’s attention and have her see someone other than a man buried somewhere in the stars. He understands at seven that his mom loves him very much, but her home isn’t on Earth or in the pale beige walls of their house in Iowa with bloodstains on the carpet in Frank’s bedroom and the whispered sobs in the closets. Her home is far, far away in the dark unknown, and he’s not enough to ground her.

When he throws everything he has into a quarry, he’s not trying to die. On a planet wilting away from disease and decay, he forces himself to watch the slaughter and gather up enough food to last them less than a day, and he fucking _floors_ it with eight others in tow out of the county and into the woods; he fights to survive and dies anyway, sees murder in its purest form and learns what raw, helpless fear really tastes like.

(it’s a taste that sits on his tongue and lingers in his mind, a numbing sort of adrenaline that leaves him shaking and heaving and trying to expel whatever demon is eating him from the inside out but never being able to vomit up anything more than bitter acid and starvation and death-crops.)

-

Spock is a strange entity that Jim wants to solve in every way he knows how.

He’s logic and calculations and unchanging numbers wrapped up in silver and blue and black, all sharp angles and definition. He’s a jigsaw puzzle that looks perfectly put together without a piece missing, but a closer look proves that the pieces are jagged and wrong and misplaced in some areas, a work of art that hasn’t quite been finished. Jim doesn’t consider himself much of an artist in the traditional sense because he prefers the steady equations that come with numbers and purpose, and his art is exploration while his medium is the great cosmos.

But somehow, some way, like it was always meant to be, the two of them _fit_.

Spock weeps salt-tears through glass and sits vigil beside Jim’s bed post-death; Jim says, “I’m scared, Spock,” and something inside of him breaks as he opens his eyes to bright lights and whirring machines.

There’s a shifting of currents between them and Jim, well, he’s not complaining.

-

“Thirteen,” Spock echoes. Jim merely nods.

-

See, everyone thinks James T. Kirk is the splitting image of his father, and they expect the same when he joins the ‘fleet because his dad was a hero and he has a _name_ to live up to. The kid born in space, the kid who grew up _troubled_ and _faced hardships_ and yet the funny thing? Jesus, the funny thing is that they don’t mention Tarsus IV for the _deaths_ , no, because that’s too much of a fucking stain on the ‘fleet’s record to be mentioned in passing. They mention it because James T. Kirk lived and could tell the tale but chose not to. It’s in his folder no doubt, a small piece of his history that says hey, you survived the slaughter and the insanity! great job, jim kirk! To Jim, though Tarsus IV is just a memory he put behind him, something that happened but never defined him, a lesson in morals and the harsh reality that smacks him in the face throughout his teens and early adulthood. He’s not shaped by it, not completely, because he’s only _thirteen_ when it happens and yeah, he grew up too fast, but it’s the depression and shock he managed to stop himself from drowning in that _really_ shaped him.

He was never beat by that place, only ever haunted in the middle of the night, and yet—and yet it’s pity he’s given, and sympathy and faux understanding that crawls under his skin and makes him itch with anger.

When he says, “I was thirteen,” he’s not talking about the starvation and the rock-graves he dug and buried for children; he’s not talking about the car in the quarry or the handprints and bruises on his arms and the blood on his lips.

What he’s talking about, at one in the morning two months before the _Enterprise_ is due to depart for the five-year mission and he says, “I was thirteen,” is that at thirteen, he

lost

himself.

-

He explains it like this:

“Thirteen and a lot of shit happened, like, that was basically the age that Jim Kirk’s life decided to give him a big fuck you and teach him the ways of the cruel, cruel world. It’s not even the fact that Frank was an abusive asshole and drove Sam away for good, or that I was left to rot on a planet that was rotting anyway—and, Christ, their eyes were _dead_ , Spock—it’s that I should have felt something but _didn’t_. I came home and I was numb, I woke up and I was numb, I went through the motions but I was never really there. My mom, she tried for a time, but this place was never her home after my dad—well, anyway, she went back to the stars and I was left, again, to drag my sorry ass out of the misery. You’d think seeing all the death and shit would haunt me, but it wasn’t even that! No, the worst part, the worst _fucking_ part? It was that being on that godforsaken place was the best time of my life before the crops died. And that, Spock, that’s just fucking sad.”

Spock answers with this:

Silence.

-

Jim is released from Starfleet Medical a month after his miraculous recovery and he’s sent to his apartment for rest, rest, and more rest.

He’s not arguing with that; his apartment is better than the Academy dorm was and it has a wicked view of the city and it lights up each night in precise patterns that shimmer and glow. It’s coalesced stars and energy scattered through infinite-storey buildings and the sky is too far for him to reach but it blankets him anyway. He collapses on his couch after dropping his duffle bag somewhere between hallway and kitchen, and he’s pretty sure he toed off his boots but probably not, and he’s asleep within a matter of seconds to the quiet patter of rain sloshing against the glass.

Then three o’clock hits sharp and fast, panic eager to strike the moment he wakes up in a cold sweat in a sweltering apartment with his neck craned at an awkward angle over the armrest and legs tangled together in a tangled heap while he nearly rolls onto the floor. It’s not the most pleasant wake-up call and he feels as if he’s going to vomit up everything he’s eaten since waking up on that biobed, but he manages to get his body under control and his gag reflex to calm down; he focuses on the _pit-pit_ of droplets hitting glass and the swirling wet trails they leave behind as they drip to gather on edges. It gives him the opportunity to collect himself, enough to sit up properly albeit shakily, and make his way on unsteady legs to the bathroom.

The light burns his eyes so he says, “Lights, five percent,” which gives him just enough clarity to _not_ bump into the corner of the counter. He turns the tap on to its coldest setting and splashes his face, hands trembling, and he’s no stranger to nightmares but it’s been a few weeks since his last one and he’s not keen on going back to the crippling fear in the middle of the night where the demons peak from the closets and hide under his bed.

So, as articulate as humanly possible in this situation, he mutters, “ _Fuck_ ,” and remembers cold fingers plastered against cool glass, remembers the last beating of his heart before all went dead; it’s vivid and crawls under his skin like the familiar anger so long ago, leaves him a mess as he sinks to the floor and rests his back against the counter.

-

Spock, naturally, is the first one to visit him, and it’s somewhat of a surprise that it’s not Bones yet entirely welcome nonetheless.

“Spock!” he greets, door wide open and grin on his lips as if he slept the entire night through; he’s had practice in this matter, thinks he knows how to hide the bags under his eyes and the twitch of his hands from overdosing on caffeine. “What can I do for you?”

“Jim,” he nods, hands folded neatly behind his back, and Jim has missed this more than he thought he ever could and he fights the urge to pull the Vulcan-man into an embrace. He doubts that will go over too well and his limbs ache from bad sleeping angles and too much exercise. “You look… haggard.”

Maybe he’s not as great at this as he used to be, maybe Spock is just too good at Reading Jim, maybe everything is coming to a fucking climax in his life and he just wants some peace for once. It says a lot about him that he doesn’t slam the door in Spock’s face and instead tiredly invites him in, like he doesn’t have the energy to argue or fake it, like this is where Spock is meant to be and will always return to.

They sit side-by-side on the couch.

“Thanks,” is all Jim says.

“Not needed,” Spock counters. Jim laughs quietly, a bitter thing that hurts his throat and chokes him up, his head dropping to Spock’s shoulder because everything _sucks_ and everything needs to stop spinning for a bit.

He falls asleep. Spock doesn’t wake him up until the sun begins to set and Bones is there, sitting in the recliner chair with a mug of coffee, and it’s so damn domestic that he buries his face in Spock’s neck and blames it on the painkillers.

(he’s not on painkillers.)

-

“Fifteen though. Now _that_ was a hell of a time.”

-

Because he fights often and comes home (ha!) with bloody noses and sometimes, if he’s that lucky, he’ll have a black eye to match. He tries alcohol for the first time from some kids who hang around the park after dark, the kids no one ever warned him about who smoke bad tasting cigarettes and steal liquor from anywhere they can. They offer him some as a joke, but he’s not the naïve kid they all seem to think of him as, and he ends up downing an entire bottle of vodka; all it does is earn him some respect that doesn’t stick around and a nasty hangover the next morning when he wakes up in the outskirts of the park with the heavyset trees and thick leaves. It’s something like an addiction that curls in his gut and settles at the bottom of his ribs, not so much the alcohol itself but the loss of inhibition that lets him Not Think, and it’s _fantastic_.

It angers Frank. Jim steals the aging whiskey from the cabinet in his room.

-

Eighteen and the powder burns, causes his nose to bleed the first time he tries it, but it does the trick while he ends up sprawled on the floor of the random could-have-been; she has a nice body and breasts to match, strong curves and muscle-thighs that he licks and kisses his way up until he can taste what they’re both after. She offers him a place to crash for the night and he does, white-stained nose his only reward in the morning.

He tries it once, twice, three times more until the powder becomes his enemy and the addiction blossoms into something dead.

-

“Do you remember your first?” Jim asks. His eyes are sore from staring out the window into the highlights of the city, his back aching from how he’s sitting. Spock hasn’t moved much, sitting as casual as he can be in the chair opposite of Jim’s seat on the edge of his bed. They’ve been here for hours. Jim doesn’t regret anything he’s said so far, knows he will when he’s done and laid out bare for Spock to dispose of.

“Indeed,” Spock answers, and Jim nearly forgets what he asked in the first place. It startles him a bit, his muscles clenching involuntarily, and he nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek because he doesn’t know where this conversation was supposed to go. He’s messed up and fucked up, words and memories spilling from his lips like poisoned wine.

“Huh,” he says instead. “I don’t.”

-

The first time he kisses Spock is in at four in the morning on a Tuesday, four months post-release.

It’s humid and his body burns with fever, dream-memories flitting in and out of his mind, and Spock sits on the bed while Jim tosses and turns in the blankets. He should have expected this but didn’t, and his body is rebelling against him, trying desperately to rid whatever virus is visiting his immune system. Spock, for his part, alternates between placing a cool damp cloth on Jim’s forehead and messaging Bones on his PADD.

“Why isn’t Bones _here_ ,” Jim moans, and if Spock was anyone other than Spock, Jim knows he would totally be rolling his eyes. All he gets, though, is a half-raised eyebrow and another _pat-pat_ of a cool cloth. It’s heavenly.

“Seeing as it is four eleven in the morning, I believe Doctor McCoy to have gone back to bed.”

“But I’m _dying_. Isn’t that like, I dunno, cause for concern?”

“I have assured him that I have full control of the situation.”

Jim attempts to snort, but all that comes out is a wet cough that leaves him dry-heaving into a bucket Spock had prepared exactly for this moment. Three minutes later and he’s able to respond with actual words.

“And do you?”

“Absolutely. You make a remarkably cooperative patient, despite the doctor’s insistence that you are, in his words, ‘a monster patient with no patience’.”

He buries his face in his pillow and shakes his head, which causes the pounding in the base of his skull to intensify. A groan escapes him and he rolls onto his side so he’s facing Spock, who looks far too amused for a Vulcan dealing with a sick Jim Kirk. Actually, he looks too amused for a Vulcan in general. Maybe it’s because it’s that time where it’s late-early, not quite the cusp of morning but not the depth of night, either. It’s relaxing to see, eases up some of the tension in his chest. This is the one who stayed in the hospital with Jim until he woke up, the one who witnessed his death with a barrier separating them, and it hits him so _strongly_ that he forgets how to breathe for a second.

It’s definitely the fever talking when he mutters, “I don’t understand why you stick around.”

Spock doesn’t visibly react but Jim knows him well enough to tell when he’s taken aback, and he most certainly is at the quiet admission; Jim continues before he loses his nerve, before he realizes that he’s speaking at all.

“I’ve had flings, a lot of flings, with at least six different species, and it was so _easy_ , okay, all I had to do was fuck and leave and that was it, it was _really damn simple_. And then there’s—there’s you, and I fucking hated you, but not really because you were _interesting_ and you fought back and all that shit that happened, it happened, but you stuck around anyway, asked to be my first fucking officer when you could have gone to _anyone_ , so _why me_? I’m, I’m Jim Kirk, I’m gonna fuck this up.”

“Interesting,” Spock says evenly, cloth resting on Jim’s forehead and Spock’s hand resting on the cloth. “However, I chose to stay of my own free will, and while you are quite difficult the majority of the time, I do not believe you are going to ‘fuck this up’, whatever ‘this’ may be. You are lacking credit, Jim, the credit you owe to yourself. Do not forget that.”

“I’m gonna kiss you,” is Jim’s elegant response.

And he does—he fists a hand in Spock’s black shirt and manages to pull himself up while simultaneously tugging Spock down, and their lips crash in a painful mess of teeth. Jim expects him to jerk away, to leave and not look back, but—but he doesn’t, instead settles with gently cupping Jim’s cheek with one hand for three seconds and then pushing him back down onto the bed. It’s slow and languid and Jim doesn’t know how to feel, how to react to what happened.

“Humans,” Spock murmurs, dabbing the cloth on forehead and cheeks and neck. “I will never understand their need to pass on germs while ill. Your timing needs work.”

Jim dissolves into hysterical laughter while Spock’s lips quirk just the smallest amount.

-

“It was a mutual agreement,” Spock tells him, hands folded in his lap. He doesn’t look upset and his voice is awful steady, another knife stabbed into Jim’s ribs. “We agreed that it was best for us to… remain strictly friends.”

“I’m sorry,” is all he can think of. He doesn’t do break-ups, doesn’t know how, and he’s surprised Spock is telling him at all. Their friendship has strengthened over the last two months, since Jim had been released back into the real world, that’s for sure, but this isn’t his area of expertise.

Spock’s lips twitch slightly as he says, hardly above a whisper, “As am I.”

-

“It’s mostly sex and booze and bar hopping from then on,” he continues, offering himself in pieces. Spock accepts them and lays them out, figuring out where each one goes, an equation yet to be solved. “I think I had a purpose at the time, but whatever it was, I don’t remember anymore.”

-

He doesn’t expect to get into Spock’s pants.

Now, he wouldn’t mind all that much, because Spock is attractive in all the ways it counts and Jim wants to drag his fingertips across the soft skin and taste him, find out what makes him tick and what he looks like in the throes of pleasure. However, Spock is still that mystery he has yet to solve, and he’s not sure if they’ll go that far; he’s not used to emotional commitment or attachment, but he’s walked himself into this one. And that’s going to be really fucking awkward if he fucks this up right around the time they leave for the five year mission, and the crew would never forgive him and he’d never forgive himself, but he _fucks up things_ , it’s his trademark, or something, so he has two options in this matter.

One: he can back out while he has the chance, tell Spock it was only that night because the fever and lack of judgment, and throw his heart back into the dusty corner where it belongs. Spock will understand, they’ll still be the best of friends, or whatever it is they were before Jim went and _kissed Spock_.

Two: he can pour everything he has into this, try and be what Spock deserves, and because Jim is selfish and lonely, he picks this one.

He doesn’t expect to get into Spock’s pants.

Yet five months post-release, one month post-kiss, they end up on Jim’s bed with Spock’s hands on his hips and mouth on his neck, Jim’s fingers trembling and working on getting Spock’s pants off his body. It’s frantic and desperate on both ends; Jim feels every touch, every ghost of a breath on his flesh where Spock kisses him. Down the curve of his jaw, the dip in his neck, collarbones and down down down his chest, quick and wet and electrifying. He was half-hard when they stumbled in and now, now he’s definitely all the way there, hard and aching and _needing_ the body over his. He drags Spock’s face back up to his own and kisses him breathless, tongue tasting the inside of his mouth, licking and teasing in every way he knows how; Spock responds in kind, manages to get Jim’s pants off and tosses them in the hamper.

“You have good aim even in bed,” Jim whispers into Spock’s lips. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I believe that’s a conversation for another night,” Spock murmurs, voice dark and velvet against his neck and oh _god_ it goes straight to Jim’s dick, has him arching off the bed and grinding into Spock’s hips.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jim moans, and then he’s gone, baby, _gone_.

-

He admits to Spock, and only to Spock, one month until departure, “I never understood why she never stayed until I went up into space myself.”

Until Pike had dared him, until he had forged his own road and enrolled at the Academy, until he became well acquainted with the very thing his mother loved most in the universe; and he expects to feel jealous, maybe, because she had never stuck around, and that hurt in more ways than one, but all he feels is a sense of peace. There’s a rift that will never heal, a rift that separates Sam from Jim and Jim from his mother, but there’s a bit of empathy swelling in his gut the first time he goes into space. Even Bones is awed, and this man, the man that will become Jim’s greatest friend and once-lover, is his comfort. He will not understand until halfway through their first year why this is so, won’t understand until he hacks into the system and gets them a room together second year even though his track is Command and Bones is Medical.

(the three of them, after marcus and khan, after everything is shot to hell and back again, become something of a package—jim and spock and bones, three sides to a triangle, x, y, z.)

“But I get it,” he continues, head resting in Spock’s lap just because he can, fingers tapping out one-two-three-one-two-three on his knee. “It’s pretty fucking great up there.”

“It’s quite fascinating.”

They sit in companionable quiet until the ache in his chest grows too deep, stabbing him over and over, something he hasn’t felt since Sam left.

“It’s hard to believe he’s actually gone, you know? He’s the reason I joined, I thought—whatever I thought, I guess it doesn’t matter now, but…”

“It will always matter, Jim,” Spock says firmly, and Jim looks up, traces the edges and angles of his jaw with his eyes, the barely-there downturn of his lips, the light quirk of his right eyebrow. “And I grieve with thee.”

The knot in his stomach unfurls, his chest doesn’t feel quite so heavy, and Jim lets himself breathe once again.

-

“A troubled childhood,” Spock eventually supplies, and Jim finally looks at him. There’s no pity or sympathy or even understanding, just a simple acceptance that shit happened and Jim, no matter how much he argues and assures that he’s fine, is haunted. But Jim knows that Spock _does_ understand, a man of two worlds that are eager to tear him apart, and he’s seen the scars from a childhood torn in half.

“It’s the nightmares,” he admits, turning back towards the window, watching the lights flicker in and out of existence like dying stars; it’s space out there, too, galaxies dripping in the infinite-storey buildings and nebulas glaring bright and endless in city-light. It’s calming, familiar. “I’m tired of dying.”

“A fear, perhaps.”

“Maybe. I was—fuck, I was scared when I was actually _dying_ , but I’m not afraid to die. That doesn’t even make sense.”

“On the contrary,” Spock interrupts, the tiniest amount of emotion flooding his voice. “I believe I understand exactly what you mean.”

And he does, of course he does, Spock understands him in ways that Jim doesn’t even understand himself, and all the clichés in the world wouldn’t be enough to describe what it is that they have and what they are. It’s terrifying and new and sometimes he still thinks about running but never does, always stays behind and lets his heart bleed out everywhere because Spock will, one day, be the one to heal the wound no one else could ever see.

“I guess, maybe, I’ve always had a feeling on how I’m going to die.”

Spock urges him with silence to go on, and Jim does, fingers tapping out one-two-three-one-two-three on his knee, “How I lived—alone.”

-

He can feel Spock’s gaze staring through him, past the flesh and muscle and bones, and he feels oddly exposed, splayed out on a table and waiting to be dissected but never feeling the pain, never _feeling_ —

—not until there are hands everywhere and sparking something deep within the dusty closets, finding all the secrets buried under rocks, and it ignites a fire in the depths of his ribs.

-

They lay together in Jim’s bed, atop the blankets because it’s too hot and humid to need them, and their hands entwine in a sort of intimacy Jim never knew possible. He feels awfully raw, not quite cleansed but not as jagged either, and Spock’s even breaths on his neck are a comfort in the night.

“Thanks,” Jim sleep-slurs, and he’s tired and achy and excited all at once, but he needs this to be said.

“As per usual, no thanks are necessary.”

“It is. I’m not even sure why, alright, but just accept it? Please? Otherwise I’m going to feel like a dick.”

He _will_ because he’s dragging Spock along with him in this, two halves of the same whole that haven’t quite found their places but are working on it, and the paths laid out before them are long and strenuous and bursting with exploration and new life; Jim wants to see and experience it all with this half-Vulcan, half-man by his side, wants to glide to the end of the universe and then keep going, surrounded by the limitless stars and questions in the seams of darkness.

Sometimes, sometimes Khan’s blood is too much for him, a monster festering in his body, but on those nights—the bubbling panic and swallowed screams—Spock will kiss him senseless with his fingertips, his lips, his body, and Jim will remember that he is not bound by anything, that Spock is the only tether he needs.

“You once asked me why I stay,” Spock says gently, watching Jim severely with that crease between his eyes. Jim nods, and that says it all, says _i'm still not sure, will probably never be sure because a lot of this feels like a dream and the rest feels like some cruel joke being played, but jesus_

_i think i love you and that’s fucking terrifying so please please please don’t leave_

“It is you I choose—I will wade through the stars and nebulas on the days you are trapped, conquer galaxies and destroy asteroids, whatever it may be, whatever you may need. Do you understand?”

And Jim had once asked, “Do you understand why I went back for you?” and all those jagged pieces and broken edges, all the missing spaces and thousands of miles between them, the distance and the ghosts, they all come together and fall into place and perspective.

He kisses Spock, frantic with all the words he can’t speak, but Spock understands, always understands, and kisses back until they need air, until Jim’s chest is heaving with a heart that’s beating _i love you i love you i love you_.

Jim buries his face in Spock’s neck like he’s done many times before, hands still entwined, and it’s so fucking sappy and _intimate_ that he can’t breathe.

“ _T’hy’la_ ,” Spock murmurs into Jim’s hair. “Brother, lover, friend.”

And Jim, Jim feels at home, feels complete and exposed and nearly pieced back together.

This, this is where he’s meant to be, and he finally

finds

himself.


End file.
